Airport Musing

Attack on the senses.

It is just after 8 am. Im at Brisbane Domestic which lives every bit up to its name. Whether it is the overly spiced Thai Tom Yum soup I am attempting for breakfast, or the touch of the greasy food court tables; it may be the bagpipe-like drone of a million conversations around me, or the click click clicking of the whole population of the airport texting off messages to the faceless multitude. It could be the aromas, nay the odours of half trained baristas attempting to make that perfect pre-flight skinny half strength decaf soy mocha latte, or it could be the illumination from flouros with starter motors log past their maintenance schedule for replacement, but this place can only be described as some 21st century psychological torture chamber on my senses.

The journey begins with an iPhone alarm sounding 4 minutes after I had actually woken at 3:30. why is it that we rely on devices when our body clock , supercharged with nervous energy, was always going to ensure I was awake anyway? Or haven’t I slept yet? Who knows.

The princess was woken for a last good bye cuddle. The prince stirs and calls out “see ya Dad”, it is music to my ears. The 15 year old usually needs a sternal rub or Trapezeus twist to arouse teenage slumber, yet, here in the peaceful house with the hypnotic beat of rain on our tin roof, all my people are awake to see Dad on his journey.

The Bus, due to arrive to take me to airport at 4am, has gotten itself bogged to the axles in Oakey. A taxi is called to transport me to Toowoomba, to meet the bus’s replacement.
The Toowoomba bus transports 6 irritated and overtly inconvenienced travelers waiting for me to the 2nd coach waiting for us in Gatton. I sit at the front with Warren, the driver. 6 pairs of eyes hot with distain are boring into my back, and I am thankful that we live in a land with tight gun laws. Like I bogged the bus!!!

We arrive at the MacDonalds in Gatton, where a coach of 15 more travelers are waiting for our hook up, and the journey to the airport is underway.

I boarded the coach and sit next to a delightful lady with a familiar and distinctive voice. We got chatting and she is off to New Zealand to visit Duncan, her brother and his children and their children in the North Island. Pleasantries are exchanged , and then the inevitable questions around vocation and personal interest encroaches on our conversation. An avid gardener, and owner of a nursery in Pittsworth, with a passion for heritage roses, and a lifetime of expertise on all things horticultural. The woman is none other than Penny McKinlay from the ABC gardening talk-back show on Saturday morning. We had the loveliest chat for the 3 hour trip to Brisbane.

One look at that Ipswich road , and Western Freeway, as reminder enough of why I live where I live.

So here I am after a morning of adventure, a trip on 3 vehicles and I have not boarded my first (of 3) plane. From the peace and quiet, of Meringandan (my sanctuary), to the audtory, gustatory, olfactory, tactile and visually insulting Brisbane airport. I feel like I have done a whole Day, and I haven’t even left.